


Life Would Still Go On

by llemonelle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Car Accidents, Getting Back Together, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Pining Enjolras, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llemonelle/pseuds/llemonelle
Summary: A month after his breakup with Enjolras, Grantaire gets into an accident that causes him to lose his memory of the entire relationship. Enjolras is left to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This is my first E/R fic and I hope you like it. I'm @hardrockcafejerusalem on tumblr and I'm hoping to update this fic every week.

_The not knowing is worse,_ Enjolras thought. _Of course it is. It always is. Our worst fears lie in anticipation and all that._

Courf didn’t understand why he was so worried, or why he hadn’t left the waiting room, or why he looked so tired. Courf kept trying to get him to relax, sit home, _hey, why don’t we go back home and shower up?_

Obviously, Enjolras wasn’t going to do that. Instead, he was going to pace around the hospital waiting room like a shark swims. If he stopped moving, he would drown.

Grantaire had been there, in his apartment, just three nights earlier. He had been there, happy and charming, and when he was leaving, he turned back and gave Enjolras that smile that had made his heart stop. Enjolras had thought that this was over. They could put their past behind them and finally be together again.

“Enj, sit down,” Combeferre said, irritably. The waiting room emptied out a few hours ago, and tensions were running high. Earlier, all of Les Amis had been there, taking up every seat and emptying the vending machine. Now, late into the night, everyone else had left, and only the Enjolras and Combeferre remained.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re stressing me out,” Combeferre glared at Enjolras from his magazine. _Southern Living_.

Enjolras stopped pacing and started tapping his foot.

“Christ,” Combeferre groaned.

“Our friend is in the hospital and this is what bothers you?”

“Currently, yes,” he replies, always the reasonable one.

“Do you even care about him?” Enjolras asked.

“Of course I care. I’m surprised you do.”

Enjolras stuck his nose in the air. “We’re still friends.”

“I’m sure you are,” Combeferre rolled his eyes. He removed his glasses and rubbed his brow, and Enjolras could see the lines of stress. They had been here too long, and it was obviously wearing on both of them. The accident happened 3 days ago. They still hadn’t seen Grantaire. Enjolras was going insane.

Logically, he knew that the hospital staff wasn't deliberately keeping a healthy Grantaire trapped in the hospital against his will. It didn’t stop his mind from racing, from imagining a world where he was so fed up with the nurses ignoring him, with the staff hurrying by, with his friends pretending that Enjo shouldn’t even be there. He was so angry, in his fantasy, in his real life, that he imagined bursting through those doors, going into every room, tearing the hospital apart like a throat, until finally, finally, he found him. And in the dream, Grantaire is smiling and so handsome, and when Enjolras comes in it’s like the prince rescuing Rapunzel from the tower.

He hadn’t realized he was pacing again until he heard Combeferre, “Sit down, Enjolras,”

He did.

“What if he dies?” Enjolras asked, feeling small.

Combeferre, suddenly soft, placed a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, “He’s going to be fine,”

The walls and floors of the hospital were stark white and bore into Enjolras’s eyes. He hated empty time like this, with nothing to do but think and entertain himself. At this time, his mind wandered, and it forced him to think. He’d spent the last few days reliving every conversation he had had with Grantaire before the accident, every phone call and text. He had gone over their break-up over a dozen times already, and at this point it was beginning to feel like a scene in a movie. Something that didn’t happen to him. Every time he re-watched it, he felt stupider and stupider.

They had been broken up for a month now. It had only gotten dumber with time. If he could go back, he would. For now, all Enjolras could do is revisit memories like they were landmarks.

A few weeks before the break-up, Grantaire took Enjolras to the beach late at night, hid him behind the rocks, and kissed him until Grantaire’s beard had begun to rub Enj’s chin raw. Enjolras had pulled away the second the dull pain turned sharp, only to see Grantaire’s pout.

“Ouch, Christ,” he had said, softly, not wanting to break the spell.

“Alright?” Grantaire had asked, laughter on his face.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras smiled back.

Grantaire leaned back, lounging, with an effortless casual air that Enjolras would be jealous of for the rest of time.

“Your face is red,”

It only made him blush more. Enjolras would never understand why Grantaire simply looking at him was enough to drive him crazy. “You need to shave,”

In the blue light of the evening, Grantaire glowed. “I’m...um,” he said, opening his hands in front of his body, obviously searching for an joke, “I’m growing it out,”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, um...what’s that thing that Marius does? Novem-”

“Are you thinking about Movember?” Enjolras laughed. He never laughed like he did with Grantaire.

“November?”

“No, Movember. November’s already a month.”

Grantaire laughed, “Oh, yeah, Movember. I’m a big, big fan of…”

Enjolras could barely get a word in through his giggles, “Men’s prostates?”

“That’s what that is about?” Grantaire said, genuinely surprised. “Hell yeah, I love prostates. Can’t get enough,”

“Jesus, R,” Enjolras laughed.

“I mean, you can attest,” Grantaire smiled and threw up his hands.

“Disgusting,” Enjolras had said, tucking his face into Grantaire’s shoulder.

“You love it,”

Suddenly brave, Enjolras replied, “I love you,”

“Misters Enjolras and Combeferre,” a nurse said, interrupting Enjolras’s memory. “Mister Grantaire is awake.”

Enjolras’s mouth went dry, “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. He has a broken wrist.” Even if it was the best possible outcome of this accident, a broken wrist would be devastating to Grantaire, and therefore, to Enjolras as well.

“Which wrist?” he asks, at the same time Combeferre asks, “Can we see him?”

“Absolutely. Follow me,” she said, apparently not hearing Enjolras’s question.

As they followed her, Enjolras’s stomach sank, the reality of the situation finally hitting him.

Grantaire’s room was, if possible, even more white and empty than the waiting room, and it made his dark hair stick out like a sore thumb. He was facing the window, giving Enjolras a perfect view of his nose and throat, and as he stared, he felt his chest shrink around his heart.

“Grantaire?” the nurse caught his attention, “You have visitors here to see you,”

As if snapping out of a trance, he looked at them.

“Hello,” Grantaire said, “Who are you?”


	2. Chapter 2

The doctors said it was some type of amnesia. Enjolras didn’t remember what type. Combeferre would, or Joly. _Jesus_.

For years now, there had been a process that he had been working on. To not take everything so personally, or be so selfish or wrapped up in himself, but it was difficult not to succumb now.

Grantaire left the hospital five days ago. Enjolras hadn't seen him.

He had most of his adolescent memories, and even some from his first few years of university, but everything after that was lost. He was staying at Bossuet's apartment currently. As soon as Enjolras heard the news, he took himself out to the picture.

It was terrible and selfish, but he couldn’t handle it. Seeing someone else in Grantaire’s body, in his clothes, speaking with his voice. It was just distracting enough to irritate Enj, and it was just strange enough to hurt.

They were so close.

Their breakup had been a month ago, and it had been messy. The shouting, the swearing, the insults. Then, two weeks of haughty silence. If he and Grantaire happened to be in the same room (which was rare, as Grantaire had stopped attending Les Amis meetings), they would stay at opposite sides. _Two negative magnets._

But that last meeting, Saturday night, something was different. Grantaire was laughing across the room, curls moving like running water and cheeks flush with wine and happiness and Enjolras couldn’t take his eyes away. That night, he realized that love and hate are very much adjacent emotions.

Later, as Enjolras tried to give his weekly, crowd-rousing speech, Grantaire kept _looking_ at him, watching him, from the mouth of a bottle. _Jesus_ , his mouth on that bottle. His eyelashes...his curls...the bit of hair that poked through the collar of his shirt.

It wasn’t Enjolras’s best speech.

After the meeting, the two of them lingered, waiting for the cafe crowd to thin. Across the room, Enjolras watched Grantaire catch him staring.

 _What’s up, Apollo?_ he mouthed.

Enjolras just smiled.

Finally, Courf left, and only the two of them remained.

“Hey,” Enjolras had said, making his way to the bar. He was terrible with words around Grantaire.

“Hello,” Grantaire had smirked.

“You stayed pretty late,”

“Worried about my bedtime, Apollo?”

Enjolras took a seat at the stool next to him. “I do worry about you,”

Grantaire snorted. Enjolras could feel his defenses going up. “Of course you do.”

Enjolras shrugged. He had had too much to drink. “‘s not a bad thing.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as Enjolras started to wonder if maybe he had made a mistake.

“You look good,” slipped out of his lips before he stopped it.

Grantaire looked at him skeptically, “Where’s this coming from?”

Enjolras shrugged again. “You look good,” he repeated.

Grantaire laughed. “You’re not so bad yourself,”

Enjolras watched him sip his beer, the way the liquor moved in his throat, the flush on his neck.

“I miss you,” he confessed.

Grantaire studied him for a minute before tipping his baseball cap over his eyes. In a low, husky, but joking voice, he said “Now what says you and I head back to yours, doll?”

Enjolras had smiled wide, taken his hand, and led him out of the cafe, into the night.

 _Later, Apollo_. Jesus fucking Christ.

Grantaire left the hospital five days ago. Enjolras had been going insane.

That night, he was in his apartment, trying to read literally anything, when he got a call from Courf.

“Our fearless leader! How goes the mindless consumption of corporate law cases?” He had clearly started drinking.

“Where are you?”

“Lesgle wants to bring Grantaire back." On the other side of the line, Enjolras could hear the phone dropping out of Courf’s hand.

“Excuse me?”

More fumbling, “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing his memories back! Join us!”

“Are you all there?” Enjolras asks, slightly miffed that he wasn’t invited.

“Bossuet’s! Come over!” Courf declared as he hung up.

Enjolras had no idea why he went. He didn’t want to see Grantaire; didn't want to pretend they were exes. He hated drinking, hated drunk people, especially hated drunk Grantaire (Should he even be drinking in his condition?).

He went anyway.

As soon as he knocked on the door, Enjolras was glad he went. Combeferre answered, exceptionally sober, and every single other person in the room was drunkenly recounting stories to Grantaire.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, not looking happy to see him.

“Hello,” Enjolras replied, eyes immediately seeking out Grantaire.

_Ah. Of course._

He was lounging on a bean bag (because Bossuet was a child who lived a life without furniture), beer bottle on his lips, nodding along with whatever Marius was saying, but obviously not comprehending a word.

“What are you doing here?”

“Courf invited me,”

“Shit,” Combeferre said, “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to.”

Combeferre looked skeptical.

“Truly, I did. I promise,”

“Right.”

“Let me in?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed, “Be kind. He’s not...he’s—”

“I know.”

Combeferre stepped out of his way, “Okay.”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yelled from his seat next to Marius. He was joined by a loud chorus of drunken greetings. Despite everything, it warmed Enjolras’s heart as he took a seat in between Combeferre and Prouvaire.

“Grantaire, this is Enj,” Combeferre gestured between them.

“Hello,” Enjolras said, uncertain.

There was a misty sense of recognition in Grantaire’s eyes, “You were at the hospital, right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, probably too quickly, “I was worried about you,”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, simply, looking down.

“Hey, Grantaire,” Courf started, “Remember when I knocked over the soap busts at the National Gallery?”

An hour or two later, Enjolras found himself in the kitchen with Combeferre, cleaning dishes. He’d tried to stick around Grantaire, but the side-eyes that he got from the rest of the group were enough to dissuade him. Plus, Grantaire didn’t seem particularly interested in him. At least, no more than anyone else.

“You okay?” Combeferre asked, seeming worried. It was how they showed love. _Care is concern._

“Fine. It’s just…” he trailed off. Unfortunately, Combeferre was the type who could wait and listen. “It’s weird.”

“Yeah…” Ferre replied, “Did...did something happen between you two?”

Enjolras felt caught, and he wasn't even hiding something (not really), “I haven’t seen him since the hospital.”

“I mean before that.”

Enjolras looked Combeferre in the eyes and sighed, “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“We...hooked up, I guess,”

He looked surprised, “Really?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

The heavy silence was severed by Grantaire entering the kitchen, pack of cigarettes in hand. “Oh,” he said, “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Enjolras and Combeferre said at the same time, probably looking incredibly suspicious.

“I was just going out on the fire escape to smoke,”

“Oh, good,” Enjolras said, at the same time Combeferre said, “Sounds great.”

Grantaire nodded, looking between them like he was trying to snuff out a mystery. “Well...okay,” he said finally, before opening the window and climbing out.

“COMBEFERRE!” Courf yelled from the other room, “COMBEFERRE!”

“Jesus,” Ferre said, shaking his hands dry, “I can’t believe I’m dating him,”

“You know,” Enjolras said, a small smile creeping onto his face, ready for the joke, “you don’t have to,”

From the door, Combeferre turned over his shoulder and gave him a smile, “No, I’m going to.”

He left, and Enjolras found himself alone with the dishes in a house that wasn’t his.

 _Fuck this_ , he thought.

And he climbed out the window to see Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter up next week :). Kudos and comments appreciated


	3. Chapter 3

At the sound of the window opening, Grantaire turned around, and with wide brown eyes, he looked over Enjolras, drinking in.

Jesus, it had been so long since Grantaire looked at him like that, like a work of art. There had been nights, years ago, before they were even friends, where Enjolras could feel the weight of Grantaire’s eyes following him like a chain around his neck. It had faded over the years (Grantaire had gotten used to Enjolras; he didn’t find him so thrilling anymore), but, in the freezing chill of the January air, Enjolras felt warmed from the inside.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, seeking clarification.

Enjolras nodded in response, “How are you?”

Grantaire tore his eyes away, opting to look out over the city, “Not sure,”

“No. I suppose not,” Enjolras said, sitting down on the windowsill. It gave him a strange view, with Grantaire in front of him, framed by the city. If their positions were reversed, Grantaire would be rushing back inside. _Wait, I need to sketch this. Don’t move._

Real Grantaire held his pack of cigarettes out, “Want a smoke?”

That was the strangest sound to Enjolras’s ears, out of everything. Grantaire, would never smoke around Enjolras, ever. He always kept that part of himself hidden. Enjolras hadn’t seen him light up in 6 months, and based on the smell, he hadn’t been doing it in private either. Apparently, that had recently changed.

Despite himself, Enjolras answered, “Sure. Thanks.” He took one, gingerly, and looked at Grantaire, “Got a light?”

“Yeah, here,” he responded, fumbling around for a second. As the tiny flame ignited, Enjolras watched its reflection in Grantaire’s eyes. Enjolras took a long drag, looking away before he blew out.

“So…” Grantaire started, “Who are you?”

The way he looked up at Enjolras made him look particularly small, even when he wasn’t (he was several inches taller than Enjolras).

“What did they tell you?” Enjolras asked, not wanting to confuse him.

Grantaire almost laughed, “They haven’t told me shit. Bossuet made me think Marius and Cosette were siblings,”

That got a smile from Enjolras, “No, he didn’t.”

“He did.”

“Ugh.”

“I had to get away from that mess,” Grantaire said, gesturing inside, “I couldn’t listen to Courfeyrac drunkenly recount another ABC meeting.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Ferre won’t let me,” Grantaire says, flicking his cigarette stub onto the street below.

“He’s probably right,”

“Yeah, I guess. He told me I quit,”

Thoughts of Grantaire’s mouth on his bottle the last night they saw each other flashed through Enjolras’s mind. “What? No, you didn’t,”

“I didn’t?” Enjolras shook his head. “Goddamnit,”

“I always wanted you to, but it never stuck.” Enjolras confessed.

Grantaire studied him, lighting another cigarette. “Who are you?”

Enjolras swallowed the lump in his throat, “We used to date.”

Grantaire laughed, which was not the reaction Enjolras expected (It was never the reaction Enjolras expected, because he really didn’t tell jokes. Not funny ones, anyway). “Nice.”

“I’m serious.”

“We dated?” Grantaire asked, eyeing Enjolras, just critically enough to hurt (a little bit).

“18 months.”

“Christ,” Grantaire said, taking another drag, “What did I do?”

Enjolras furrowed his brow, “What?”

“C’mon,” he said with a sad smile, “How’d I mess it up?”

“You didn’t,” Enjolras responded.

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Yeah...okay.”

“I mean, we both did, I guess.”

Grantaire nodded, but he wasn’t looking at Enjolras anymore, which allowed him some room to breathe. Tentatively, took another drag, then started coughing, a deep cough that shook his chest.

“You okay?” Grantaire asked, a line appearing between his brows.

Enjolras gave one last cough, “Yeah...just not used to it.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, “Why were you in the hospital?”

“What?”

“Why were you in the hospital if we’re...exes?”

Enjolras put his cigarette out on the brick wall. “We’re....amicable.” _That’s one way of putting it._

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence, but it was comfortable (at least for Enjolras. He could never gauge if it was comfortable for anyone else).

From his vantage point, Enjolras could watch the lights of the city on Grantaire’s face. The way that colors reflected off of his skin and settled in his dark brown eyes made even Enjolras want to grab a sketchbook. _Hold still, Apollo. The light...yeah, like that._

Before they got together, he had always thought that Grantaire proved how uncreative Enjolras was. How could anyone be an artist next to Grantaire? It was like comparing Picasso to a high school art student. They would stand in galleries and halls and stare at paintings. Enjolras never saw the right things, and he figured it was a genetic deficiency. Chalk it up to his parents' un-talent for art.

Granatire proved him wrong. He made him see the world like a new person (like an artist). He could point out shapes and colors and light where Enjolras couldn’t. He pushed Enjolras to see the beauty in things without, to feel and express and _see_. 18 months with Grantaire was like apprenticing Van Gogh (did Van Gogh have apprentices?).

“Since you’re here, I should probably ask you...” Grantaire said, snapping Enjolras out of his thoughts.

“What?”

Grantaire, enchanted by the city lights, couldn’t look at Enjolras, “Who am I?”

“You’re Grantaire,” Enjolras said, but judging off of his reaction, it wasn't the answer he wanted, “I don’t know. You’re an artist.”

“Apparently I do landmark paintings for tourists,” he replied, with a hint of bitterness.

“It pays the bills,” Enjolras offered.

“Right.”

“You work at Planet Fitness.”

Grantaire laughed, “I heard. In fact, since my accident, I’ve been let go from Planet Fitness,”

“Oh. Yikes. Sorry.”

“‘s okay.”

Enjolras felt compelled to move closer, and he was one who followed his callings.

“You’re very talented,” he said, settling next to Grantaire, legs dangling over the sidewalk below, “I admire it. I tell you all the time.”

Grantaire was silent.

“You’re a very fun person.”

“Yeah?”

“If I'm looking for a good time, I know where to go.”

Grantaire stared at the skyline like it was hypnotizing him, “Why are you out here?”

“I hate drunk people,” Enjolras answered candidly. It brought a laugh from Grantaire, a small one, but just enough that it made Enjolras’s chest feel ten times lighter.

“Do you remember anything?” Enjolras asked, feeling a sudden burst of confidence.

“Not much,” Grantaire replied, “Feelings.”

“What?”

“I remember...I remember how I feel about people, y’know? Even if I don’t remember someone, I still feel...I feel like I know them. Like we’re more than strangers.”

A creeping sense of bitterness settled into Enjolras’s gut. “Right,” he said.

“Like, when I see Bossuet, I see him and I feel, like, good, I guess, and I feel like I know him, right? But I don’t know where or when or…” he trailed off. Enjolras watched him, tracing Grantaire’s profile with his eyes.

“I know you. I saw you in the hospital and I felt you,” he turned to face Enjolras, meeting his eyes, and Enjolras could feel himself begin to blush.

“What did you…” Enjolras tried to say, but he was distracted by Grantaire’s eyes, his lips, his mouth. He needed to shave. Enjolras wanted to rub his cheek on Grantaire’s (a truly mortifying thought when he was trying to form a sentence).

“I felt,” Grantaire said, as Enjolras’s mind filled in the blank with every possible word, “guilt.”

Enjolras flinched backwards, breaking the spell between them. “Oh.”

Guilt was perhaps the worst thing he could have said. Enjolras would have felt better if Grantaire had outright said that he hated him, and felt nothing but anger when he saw him.

What did Grantaire have to be guilty for? After everything, wasn’t it clear that all was forgiven?

“I guess I get it now,” Grantaire said, “I mean, if were broken up—”

“We are,” Enjolras said, suddenly needing to get away from him, the impostor, the stranger with Grantaire’s curls and mouth and clothes. He stood up, and Grantaire followed him like a mirror, “This wasn’t a good idea,”

“What?”

“I’m going back in,” Enjolras said.

“Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to say the wrong thing or—I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, suddenly worried.

“No, no, you’re fine, I just—”

“What? No, I’m sorry, just sit—”

“Grantaire, I shouldn’t have come out here. I’m sorry if I’ve confused you,” Enjolras said, pressure in his chest as he opened the window.

“Jesus, Enj, what did I say? I'm sorry,” Grantaire said, frustrated.

That soft syllable, sometimes 'Enj' and sometimes 'ange', was like venom in Enjolras's veins. He had hear it countless times before; angry after a fight fight, storming off, only to feel Granatire on his heels _I'm sorry, ange. Come back to bed_.

Enjolras looked at him, and he saw a stranger.

“You didn’t. I’m sorry. Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ghost of Sigmund Freud came to me in a dream and told me I had an oral fixation. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. My twitter is @hardrockcafes_ and my tumblr is hardrockcafesjerusalem.


	4. Chapter 4

When Enjolras woke up the next morning, he was surprised to hear the sound of singing in the kitchen. It wasn’t a frightening type of surprise, more of a realization. It meant that Michael was home. 

When it came to roommates, Enjolras was, in Grantaire’s words, the luckiest motherfucker on the planet. Technically, Michael was Enjolras’s ex-step brother, but their parents were married for such a short amount of time that he felt more like Enjolras’s cool older cousin. He offered that Enjolras move in after graduating college, and, since affordable places in DC were so commonplace and he had plenty of options, Enjolras was quick to say yes. They got along really well in this setting, mostly because Michael was the kind of person that  _ everyone  _ liked. It also helped that he was never home, especially recently. A few years ago, Michael had started hanging out with some new friends, a bunch of long-haired hippies who lived in vans and took long road trips and didn’t bathe as regularly as they should (Grantaire was smitten. Enjolras was pretty sure that if Michael wasn’t about 10 years older, Grantaire would have gotten on one knee the minute they met), and Michael had started leaving for weeks at a time, which worked with his career. He was some sort of programmer or analyst or something, Enjolras couldn’t remember, but he knew it meant Michael could work from the road. Given that Enjolras wasn’t the greatest roommate in the world (‘Disgusting’ was the word Michael used often), this arrangement was perfect.

Enjolras stumbled out of his bedroom, he was greeted with not only the lovely sound of Michael’s voice, but the smell of eggs, which he knew for a fact were not in the fridge when he had gone to bed. 

“Enjolras!” Michael nearly shouted with a smile.

“Morning,” Enjolras replied, rubbing his eyes. He took a seat at their shitty kitchen table (Everything in the kitchen was shitty. Nobody spent any time there).

“Maine was wonderful, if you were wondering,” Michael said, putting a plate of scrambled eggs down.

“Is that where you were?” Enjolras took a bite. Like everything he did, Michael made eggs perfectly.

“Some of the time. I saw your mother in New York,”

“How’s she?”

“Lonely. She says you should call her back,” Michael was always trying to repair Enjolras’s relationships, and not just with his mother.

“I’ve been busy,” Enjolras grumbled.

“You came home rather late last night,” Michael replied, sipping his coffee and giving Enjolras a pointed look. He’d been gone so long he didn’t know about any of it, the hook-up, the accident, the coma. Enjolras was suddenly at a loss for words. How could he explain any of it?

“Grantaire...was in an accident,” he finally said.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up and he put his mug down, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, is he okay?”

“He’s…” Enjolras stopped himself before he could say  _ fine _ . He wasn’t fine. “No. He’s not okay.” He could feel himself start to get choked up, but immediately pushed the feeling down.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Michael said, suddenly gathering Enjolras in a hug.

Uncomfortable, Enjolras pulled away, “No, no, he’s fine. He’s-ugh,” he didn’t have the words, “He’s got some sort of amnesia, or something. He doesn’t remember me.” 

“Just you?”

“Nobody.”

“Enjolras,” Michael said, “Don’t take this so personally.”

“It’s...I’m not.” he said, shaking his head, trying to convince himself, “We’re not even friends, really.”

Michael gave him a pointed look, one that said  _ Please stop doing this to yourself _ . Enjolras was sometimes worried about how easy to read he was.

“I’ve got to go to work,” Enjolras said, “I’ll see you later.”

Luckily, work was just boring enough that Enjolras didn’t have to try, and by the time Enjolras came home, Michael was busy with a few of his friends on the couch. It allowed Enjolras to make a beeline straight for his room and avoid talking to others.

Of course, because the universe hated him, when Enjolras plugged his phone in, he had 3 missed calls…

From Combeferre.

Although he had never thought it out in detail, there was no mistaking that their relationship had sort of...dissolved since Grantaire and Enjolras broke up. Combeferre seemed to take Grantaire’s side, and Enjolras didn’t understand why (Frankly, Enjolras didn’t understand why he even broke up with Grantaire in the first place, but there was no point in getting into  _ that _ now). 

And, yeah, since the accident, things seemed okay. But okay was far from where they were, and far from friends.

“Hello?” Combeferre said on the other line. Enjolras hadn’t even realized he had called him back.

“Um, you called me? My phone was dead,”

Combeferre sighed, “Did you talk to Grantaire last night?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, feeling as if he’d been caught. Doing what, he didn’t know.

“He’s been asking about you. Said you left in a hurry. He was worried.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. It was like a hand had suddenly squeezed his heart, just once. It had been awhile since he felt that.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I had work today, I couldn’t stay all night.”

There was a pause, “Right. Okay. Good-”

“Combeferre!” Enjolras interrupted before the other man could hang up.

“Yes?” Combeferre said, sounding weary. Med school really was taking it out of him.

It was stupid, but Enjolras had to know, “He was asking about me?”  
“Yes. What did you do to him?”

Enjolras’s defenses went up, “I-nothing. We just talked.”

Combeferre was sounding more frustrated by the moment, “I mean before his accident.” 

“Nothing!”

“You told me-”

“We just hooked up once.” Enjolras didn’t need to defend himself to  _ Combeferre _ of all people. He and Courfeyrac did the casual thing for a year before they got together.

“Why?” Combeferre asked, exasperated.

That was a confusing question, “I….I don’t know?”

“Why did you do it? Do you want to get-”

“I don’t know!” Enjolras interrupted.

“Enjolras, do you want to get back together with him?”

He thought about it for a moment, before he realized...the answer was yes. Of course he did. He was in love with Grantaire. “Yes,” he said.

There was a beat, like Combeferre hadn’t heard him. Then, a sigh, “Why?”

That wasn’t what Enjolras expected, “Why...what?”

“Why would you put us all...Why would you put  _ him _ through that?”

“Through what?” Enjolras’s temper was rising.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Combeferre!” Enjolras barked. “Through what?”

He didn’t respond.

Enjolras was frustrated. With Combeferre, with Grantaire, with himself. He didn’t need his best friend to tell him how wrong he was for ending his relationship. “Ferre-”

“You’re so deliberately selfish. It’s astounding.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Bullshit!” Combeferre snapped, “Bullshit you did! I saw exactly what happened.”

“Then, what, pray tell, happened?” Enjolras said, slow and forced, trying not to completely lose his temper.

The pause that followed made Enjolras aware of what was going on: Combeferre was being careful and considerate with his next words. Combeferre was being careful, and Enjolras was not.

“You broke up your year-old relationship.  _ Over _ a year old.”

“Yes. I did.”

“In front of your friends.”

“That wasn’t-”

“Shut. It.” Combeferre growled, “You were cruel, and calloused. You made it impossible to take your side.”

“It wasn’t about sides!”

“Don’t you fucking dare. It absolutely was! Why the hell else would you do that there?”

“I don’t remember!” 

“You stood there and stabbed Grantaire in the back, then looked to us for applause.”

“You are forgetting that-”

“Fuck  _ off,  _ Enjolras!”

“You’re forgetting that you agreed with me at the time.”

An offended pause, “I  _ what _ ?”

“You agreed that he needed an intervention.”

“Jesus, Enjolras. Listen to me!”

Enjolras did.

“You are a narcissist. You are so far up your own ass that you don’t even realize it anymore. I never agreed with you, I just didn’t want you to turn your wrath around onto me!”

He took a ragged breath.

“Stay  _ the fuck _ away from Grantaire. He’s got a brain injury.”

And Combeferre hung up.

And it all came flooding back.

Grantaire had been drunk.  _ Of course he had _ .  _ He always was _ . Enjolras was sober, and pissed.

The beach had been good. But the beach had been the eye of the hurricane. 

When they had first got together, Enjolras had been under the false impression that, because they were dating, Grantaire would give up all of the... _ annoying _ habits that Enjolras despised. Smoking, drinking, relentless cynicism, et cetera. In the end, he did give up smoking, but that was it. 

It wasn’t enough for Enjolras. It never had been.

In the 18 months they spent together, they had talked about it. Enjolras  _ had _ to lower his expectations (neither of them used those words, but...the point still stood). Grantaire wasn’t going to change overnight. Enjolras had to love him the way he was.

Just because Enjolras knew that didn’t mean he liked it. Nobody seemed to understand that he  _ didn’t _ like Grantaire the way he was, not all the time. He hated self-deprecating, negative, hard on himself Granatire. He hated Grantaire’s depression, his alcoholism. If he could have Grantaire without those things, he would.

He wanted the Grantaire who dragged him to art museums and lit up while talking about the Jackson Pollock and the...well Enjolras couldn’t quite remember now. He wanted the poet, the political opponent, the artist, the fighter, the lover. He wanted the man who cared about his friends, who would tell beautiful stories, who had so much love and goodness inside him, despite everything that had happened.

Enjolras loved to push too hard.

_ Why are you here if all you want to do is change me?  _ Granatire had yelled, drunken spit landing on Enjolras’s face.

What the hell else were relationships for?

And that is why their relationship fell apart. Fundamentally, he didn’t see the point of anything, much less love, if it wasn’t for mutual self-betterment. Enjolras was there so they could both get something out of it.

He had told that to Grantaire, once.

His response?

“Funny,” he said, dryly, “I’m here because I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: hardrockcafejerusalem  
> Twitter: hardrockcafes
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated. Sorry this is hella late.


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